


Held Safe

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Double Penetration, Multi, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-21
Updated: 2014-04-21
Packaged: 2018-01-20 05:51:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1499032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is how they operate: revolving around one another and offering that comfort when the other needs it. It's been a trying last few months - and there's a relief in being held like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Held Safe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sammywhatammy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sammywhatammy/gifts).



> This is 20 pages of d/p porn. Wheee.
> 
> On a serious note, this is my first attempt at actually writing Athos and I am, of course, very nervous because what the hell he's difficult to write (so somehow I decided that writing from his POV would be an excellent idea?). I also caught a few times where I accidentally switched up Athos and Aramis' names, so if you note any moments in the fic that I missed, please feel free to tell me cause lol god.

It’s been a long few days, really. If he’s honest, it’s been a long few months for Athos. Maybe even a long few years, if he wants to be maudlin and dramatic, which he normally only feels after he’s had one or two too many drinks. It’s just the exhaust of the last week, really, finally catching up on him. And he knows he isn’t the only one who feels it deep down, a kind of bone-deep, aching relief and exhaustion. It’s just as well. 

When Athos lets himself into Aramis’ room, he finds Aramis lying on the bed, bottle of wine balanced on his chest and staring up at the ceiling. He turns at the sound of the door opening, and for half a moment he looks a little sad, and then just smiles slightly – banishing his thoughts, undoubtedly heavy with mistakes that just keep coming to light lately, and Athos does hate to see that expression even if it isn’t directed towards him so much as the world as a whole. But he does seem genuinely happy to see him as he sits up, holding out the wine bottle towards him with a lifted brow of inquiry. 

“Where’s Porthos?” Aramis asks, warm and gentle, as Athos reaches out to take the bottle and takes a generous swig before handing the bottle back to Aramis. 

Athos shrugs, rubs at his forehead, and then slowly strips himself of his weapons, leaving them leaning against the simple yet elegant chair Aramis has in the corner. “He’ll be here soon. Sparring with d’Artagnan, no doubt.” 

“Sorry to miss it,” Aramis hums out softly, and stands to stride to Athos’ side, laying his hands on Athos’ shoulders. “You look tired today.” 

“Perhaps a little,” Athos consents, tipping his head back and surveying the ceiling, curious and yet slow, examining the kind of tiredness that soaks into his bones, different from the age-old pain he’s carried so deep on his shoulders, so long and stifling in his sadness and despair. He’d meant it, truly, when he said he’d been saving himself – and the tiredness today is not a familiar weight so much as it is a shadow of what he used to feel. The kind of bone-aching relief that comes just before a satisfying sleep. It’s still present, but already seems distant – and Athos thrills in the thought that, maybe, finally, he’ll be able to move on. Even if only a little. 

“Well then, you should lie down,” Aramis says, generous as always, hands still on Athos’ shoulders as he leads him to the bed, pushing him down so he can rest, head against the pillow. After a brief moment of just watching him, Aramis sits down beside him, and rubs a thumb along the side of Athos’ throat, ducking down to drop a small kiss to his hair. Athos only makes a small sound at that, something that would have been a murmur of happiness from anyone else. 

Aramis is all smiles, though, and he laughs softly, ducking his head to kiss over Athos’ neck, slow and precise and teasing – as is Aramis’ way. And as is Aramis’ way, whatever demons and shadows he himself is facing is steadily and concretely pushed aside in favor of lavishing Athos in attention, and while Athos would normally protest it – today, well… today he’s grateful for the attention. He sighs out, closing his eyes as Aramis licks and kisses over his neck, suckling at the base of his jaw. 

“Well since our dear friend has decided to be late,” Aramis hums as he nibbles at Athos’ ear. “I propose we start without him.” 

“You know he hates it when we do that,” Athos says with a sigh, tilting his head to give Aramis more room to nuzzle and drag his teeth down his neck, already nibbling in little bruises and bites into his skin, tugging the collar of his jacket aside as he works. 

“If he’s going to stay in the tavern to play cards or throw our dear d’Artagnan around, he has no one to blame but himself.” Aramis doesn’t sound so much sharp as he does teasing, again – as is his way. He’s smiling when he works at the brass buttons of his coat, slowly stripping it away until he can draw it down off his shoulders. 

“I’m unsure whether he’d agree,” Athos murmurs as Aramis tugs down the fabric of his tunic and suckles against his shoulder, sharp enough to leave a bruise. 

“Then we’ll give him something to complain about,” Aramis says and pulls back to shrug, his smile impish. “Perhaps he’ll punish us.” 

Athos smiles a little, fleetingly, and shakes his head fondly as Aramis waggles his eyebrows once and then begins untying his tunic enough to tug it off over his head. He tries for a reproachful look, but it’s difficult to do so when smiling still and trying to squirm out from underneath Aramis’ deft and determined hands. 

“Come on,” Aramis says, voice warm like honey, insisting, and running his hands down over his arms. “No squirming.” 

Athos almost rolls his eyes, but instead sighs and relents, lying back across the bed and letting Aramis hover over him before leaning in and kissing him, a slow and comfortable kiss before Athos can so much as attempt a dry protest, and settles instead for kissing him back. Aramis is a fabulous kisser, as he never fails to mention at least once a night, always knowing exactly how to kiss in order to draw out the contented sighs and sounds, sometimes even the murmur of his name. Athos knows how Aramis thrills for that moment, when either Athos or Porthos will sigh out, lips parting to speak his name as if it were a prayer. 

When Aramis draws back, there’s that small smile again – but also that shadow that passes over his eyes. And really, Athos knows he should still be angry with him – and he is angry, furious, to know that Aramis has put himself as well as Athos in danger, and, truthfully Porthos as well (for he knows that no walls of the Bastille would keep Porthos from attempting to free them). He is angry. But, truly, he feels helpless – that he cannot help him, that they are completely at the mercy of God and good luck. He hates to feel that helpless, that unable to reassure Aramis, whose thoughts are undoubtedly heavy and flickering back to that moment, hand always grasping absently at the cross that hangs around his neck. It’s worse in that he cannot look to Porthos for help – even though he knows that Porthos would be furious along with him, and also sympathetic to Aramis’ mood, once that initial white hot anger flooded away from him. 

“You’re thinking too much,” Aramis says quietly, thumb pressing at the furrow between his eyebrows, where his tension is starting to twist up. 

“Aramis,” Athos sighs, exasperated and fond, despite himself, and despite the heaviness of his thoughts. 

“All will be well,” Aramis says, somewhat enigmatically – but no doubt sincere, in Aramis’ way, who, despite being a soldier, always spends so much time searching for the good in people, searching for a brighter side that can make his romantic ideals a little more concrete. 

“Aramis,” Athos attempts again. “About the—”

But Aramis cuts him off with a sweet kiss, smiling a little as he kisses him, quickly, tugs on his hands so that he’ll twine his fingers into Aramis’ hair and hold fast. He pushes Athos’ thighs apart to settle comfortably between them and leans down, brushing Athos’ hair from his face to kiss him soundly, and sweetly – both a distraction as well as reassurance. 

“No, no,” Aramis protests when Athos begrudgingly drops his hands down to tug at his clothes. He even pulls back to wave a finger at him in mock discipline. “You said you were tired. So that means I’ll be taking care of you for the duration.” 

Athos would never do something as inelegant and ridiculous as pouting, but he does narrow his eyes a little when Aramis replaces his hands to his hair, lifting his eyebrows in amusement before working at the belt to his trousers, untucking his tunic and shimmying the material of his trousers down over his hips slightly. 

“Well,” Athos says, lifting one eyebrow back in reply and lifting his hips to help with the process of his undressing. “If you insist.” 

Aramis smiles at him, and the darkness in his eyes seems completely gone now, replaced instead with his quiet delight at being able to take care of him. This is Aramis’ way, to shove aside his own inner feelings and focus on the needs of others, to find reassurance in their presence, to delight in touching both Athos and Porthos, to remind himself that they are both concrete and with him, never leaving – never far away. 

So Athos lets Aramis strip him, flopping onto his back and arching his hips and watching as Aramis hops up onto the bed, knees on either side of Athos’ narrow hips. He drags his hands down the length of Athos’ chest, fingers curling along the slide of his muscles, and runs them back up again, feeling Athos’ shirt wrinkle under his hands. 

Athos sighs out and tugs his fingers through Aramis’ hair once, an indulgent touch that he knows Aramis adores, and drops his hands to curl around his wrists, long fingers wrapping tight around them and watching Aramis grin before crouching lower and kissing along his jaw. Athos tips his head back obediently. Aramis slides his lips along his jaw, his smile light and teasing, before he hums out softly and kisses him again. Aramis loves to kiss – and both Athos and Porthos have exhausted themselves trying to satisfy Aramis’ desire for kissing. Tease that he is, he can go for hours, it seems, with just kissing – going all languid and slow, each movement taking forever as he turns kisses into things that last and last. 

Athos sighs out and kisses him back, taking it slow – because unlike Porthos, he has a modicum of patience and can actually deal with Aramis’ teasing – and kisses Aramis’ upper lip and then his lower, then the corner of his mouth and then over his jaw, his cheek, until Aramis starts to squirm a little above him, dragging blunt nails down Athos’ chest in his appreciation, humming out his name and shivering. 

But then Aramis pulls back with a smile, and strips away the last of Athos’ clothing, hands light and lingering but flickering away before Athos can seize him in a grip again.

“You really are quite the tease,” Athos sighs. 

“Even worse when our dear friend Porthos isn’t around,” Aramis agrees, smiling. 

“You’re worse when he’s around because you just like it when he shoves you up against the wall,” Athos says with an elegant shrug, which only makes Aramis bark out a soft laugh. 

“Even I have my limits. He really should hurry up and get here, otherwise he’ll have to wait in line.” And with that, Aramis wiggles away before Athos can touch him properly, and sucks a soft red mark into Athos’ hip, humming happily as he gently curls his fingers around Athos’ cock, stroking once. “You seem to not want to wait, either.” 

“As I said,” Athos says with a sigh, although his amusement is betrayed by the tiny flicker of a smile to the corner of his mouth. “The worst kind of tease.” 

“Perhaps I’m just getting you ready for Porthos,” Aramis says with a wicked grin. “You know how terribly impatient our dear friend is, and how terribly sore we can get when we’re not properly prepared.” 

“You like it,” Athos mutters as Aramis smiles at him innocently, eyes alight with his mischief. He lifts his hips for Aramis who smiles even wider. 

“Lovely,” Aramis hums out, dropping his mouth down to his thigh and dragging his teeth pointedly, stroking over his cock with his fingertips again, touch light and teasing, thumb pressing to the cockhead before circling him slowly. 

Athos drops his gaze, suddenly feeling shy, as he always is before he gets swept up in the moment with one or both of them. Mostly it is the lavishing of attention that makes him go still – as both Porthos and Aramis are remarkably good at making him forget himself and his own name, remarkably good at showering him in compliments that simultaneously embarrass him for his inability to return them as well as warm him from the tight squeeze of his heart in his chest. 

When he tries to hide his face to his shoulder, though, Aramis just tuts. “No, no. Let me see.” 

Athos sighs and grumbles something, feeling the tips of his ears turn pink for half a moment before he seems to just will it away and instead tilts his head down, defiant, watching Aramis, who smiles up at him wickedly before flickering his tongue out along his cock, tongue wetting his fingers too as he makes Athos moan out, low and stark, lifting his hips up in encouragement. He’s always been ridiculous responsive, especially to both Aramis and Porthos, who always know exactly what to do to make him feel like he’s constantly on the edge of orgasm with only the simplest touches – Aramis’ relentless teasing and Porthos’ relentless force. It’s especially worse when, like most things, Aramis and Porthos make it something of a competition between the two of them to see who can make Athos moan the loudest, who can draw out his pleasure the furthest. It’s never quite so competitive the other way around – since Porthos and Athos take particular care in drawing out Aramis’ pleasure together, seeking to make him feel as good as he makes them. And it is only with a ferocious care that they press Porthos down, draw out his gasps and his shouts and his deep, rumbling happiness, to reassure him of his importance. It isn’t to say that Aramis and Porthos don’t do as much for Athos, too – because there have been many times when he’s been drawn back from the brink of darkness by their two smiles, one pressing his chest to his back and the other ducking down to drag teeth and tongue over his skin. But with Aramis and Porthos, there is always something of an exchange, always some kind of intent determination to make Athos _happy_ , if only for a moment.

So, perhaps – not so different after all. 

“He really should hurry up, though,” Aramis says with a sigh, ducking his head to swallow around Athos’ cock, sliding him in deep, tongue curling and pressing along the underside and drawing out a short gasp from Athos. 

Athos can’t help but agree – that even as Aramis suckles on his cockhead, and his thighs bruise with the burn of Aramis’ beard – there is the distinct absence of their third. 

“Do you think,” Aramis says, drawing back and stroking hard over his cock for a moment, slick and precise, “It’d be unwise for me to go downstairs and pay the poor stable boy to go fetch our friend?” 

Athos responds to this by catching his chin hard in his hand and then shifting to push two fingers into his mouth. Aramis hums out and suckles obediently, eyes wicked and alive. He laughs a little and sucks hard, teeth catching on his knuckles. Athos just sighs, sliding his fingers over Aramis’ tongue and pressing it down until Aramis has to laugh and draw back, turning his head to kiss his palm. His mouth is wet as he slides his tongue down over his cockhead again, looking up at him through dark eyelashes. 

Athos drops his hand down, too, teasing at himself, spreading his legs a little and lifting his hips. Aramis tuts, though and catches his wrist. “How rude of me to neglect you in more ways than once,” he sighs out, and kisses his palm, too. “Allow me.”

He draws back and digs around in the little table beside his bed, fetching the oil just in time to hear the lock on the door turn and Porthos enter. 

“Perfect timing, darling,” Aramis calls over his shoulder. And then he grins, eyes teasing. “But go away – we’re busy and you’ve missed your chance.” 

Porthos snorts, and looks unsurprised as he closes the door quickly behind him, removing his hat and dusting off some stray rain before hanging it off the post of Aramis’ chair, where Athos’ weapons and own hat lay strewn. Aramis watches him and then grins at him, sunny and bright, and exactly in the way that Porthos absolutely cannot resist – and a moment later, Porthos is smiling back at him a little, lifting his eyebrows. 

“Don’t let me stop you,” he says, laughing, and shrugging out of his coat, unbuttoning rather slowly for his usual manner. 

“We were doing just fine, since you’ve apparently gone and found far more interesting things to do,” Aramis sighs dramatically, pulling the oil out from the table and returning to Athos’ side, who continues to lie there – slightly overly conscious of the fact that he is the only one undressed now. Aramis drops a hand to his thigh and curls his fingers in tight just enough to hear Athos whine out casually. 

Porthos drops his coat and kicks off his boots, stalking over to the bed and tapping his toe against Aramis’ leg. “Scoot over.” 

“Ah, you see, but I was here first,” Aramis says, smiling his teasing smile and pressing a hand to his heart, sliding his hand over Athos’ thigh and over his hip. “So you’ll have to go back to sitting in the corner and waiting patiently.” 

“Oh yeah?” Porthos says, voice low, and then lifts his hand to do as Athos did earlier, curling tight into his hair and tugging a little until Aramis hums out, eyes going half-lidded as he smiles at him. 

Athos coughs significantly, arching his hip up into Aramis’ hand. 

“Don’t worry, we’d never forget you, my dear,” Aramis says with a fond sigh, and squeezes his hip. Athos pushes himself up onto his elbows, going for a dry look between the two of them which he knows is slightly lessened by the fact that his cock is still hard and he’s completely naked. 

Porthos grins at him and then leans down, catching his mouth with his and kissing him – deep and sudden. This is Porthos’ way – to kiss as if it is the first and last time he might kiss, capturing that moment and holding it tight, lips dragging across his, teeth digging in, seeming to memorize every arch and curve of his mouth and tongue. 

“Well now _I’m_ the one feeling forgotten,” Aramis sighs dramatically. 

Porthos pulls back enough to share a secretive smile with Athos, and rolls his eyes before straightening again, catching Aramis’ hair in a tight grip and dragging him in to kiss him, too, eliciting a happy sigh from past Aramis’ lips. 

Aramis sighs out when he pulls back. “I suppose that will do. What do you say, Athos? Do we forgive him for being late?” 

Athos surveys them both with a critical gaze, Aramis grinning at him and Porthos looking quietly amused. 

“I suppose,” he says at last. 

Aramis and Porthos exchange quick glances, and then Aramis grins further, tugging Porthos down so that they both lie now on either side of Athos, Aramis’ hand still on his hip and Porthos’ falling to his chest, tracing down over him. His fingers drag down over his stomach and further down, curling around his cock and stroking, somewhat apologetically but mostly just reacquainting himself with the familiar weight and girth. Athos sighs and closes his eyes, and isn’t the least bit surprise when he feels Aramis’ hand on him, too, his and Porthos’ fingers brushing together until they’re touching him in tandem. 

When Athos blinks his eyes open again, it’s to see Aramis and Porthos exchange another quiet look between them, and then Porthos smiles, soft, and leans in, kissing Aramis gently. Athos knows that Porthos has no means to know what it is that weighs down on Aramis’ mind, but also does not doubt for a single moment that Porthos isn’t aware that there is _something_. He’ll try to cajole it out of Athos later, and he’s not looking forward to lying about it – but it is not his secret to give, and it is for the best, to protect Porthos. But he knows, too, that both Aramis and Porthos can read him – can see how he’s taken steps this week, but, also that he is still weighed down, still uncertain, still unable to say, even now, how important it is that they’re both here with him, for him. 

Porthos kisses Aramis lightly, drawing out his happy sighs, their hands still moving over Athos’ cock. Athos rocks up into their touch, watching them, watching the way Porthos’ free hand rests to curl into his hair, the way Aramis’ free hand works steadily at tugging off Porthos’ belt, untethering him and working on undressing him along with Athos. 

And then they draw apart, and both duck their heads down to lavish attention on Athos, who gasps out quietly when Porthos bites down hard at one side of his neck, while Aramis suckles gently on the other side, tongue and teeth sliding up to suckle lightly at the base of his jaw. Porthos, meanwhile, works his way down, nibbling at the junction between shoulder and neck, licking at his throat. Aramis traces his lips along the line of Athos’ throat, too, after a moment, and he can feel him lean forward, catching Porthos’ lips in his own, kissing him lightly, briefly, before they both turn their attentions back to Athos. 

“Gentleman,” Athos says, lightly, voice strained. Both Porthos and Aramis draw back to look at him, and Athos clears his throat, sitting up on his elbows again and says, with as much grace and dignity that he can manage. “I believe I’ll have to steal a line from Porthos and suggest you both get on with it.” 

Porthos’ eyebrows jump to his hairline before he looks at Aramis with clear amusement. Aramis chuckles, shaking his head fondly and brushing his hand down over his chest, the joined hands on his cock slowing but staying curled around him. 

“Well, well,” Aramis sighs, and looks impish again as he leans down, kissing Athos’ forehead. “Someone _is_ impatient.” 

Athos does not roll his eyes, because that is a ridiculous thing to do, but he does reach out and help tug off Porthos’ belt the rest of the way from where Aramis has abandoned the task. Porthos chuckles, lifting his hips and, sadly, pulling away from Athos’ cock so he can shimmy out of his clothing. Athos turns and gives a critical nod to the bottle of oil left abandoned near Aramis. 

Aramis waggles his eyebrows. “Well, then. I suppose we have to decide.” 

He looks to Porthos, who meets his gaze and nods just slightly towards Athos. 

“I believe I want you tonight, Athos,” Aramis whispers, leaning in closer, as if to kiss him, but still smiling that secretive smile of his. There’s a certain weight to his words that doesn’t quite fit the many times he’s said as much to Athos, and the many times Athos has spread his legs for him, taking him in as he tips his head back and Porthos presses into his mouth. Aramis says, softly, “But, you see, that’s where we have a bit of a conundrum. Because look at our dear Porthos. Clearly he wants you, too. We both do.” 

“Oh,” Athos says, after a brief pause, where he attempts to sound casual and knows that he fails miserably as the words settle inside of him and he _knows_ what it is that Aramis is implying. Part of him thinks he should perhaps scoff. Instead, he shivers. “… I do believe you’ve both prepared the proper excuses for me come tomorrow when we’re expected to actually do our jobs.” 

Aramis laughs and Porthos shrugs. “Say you’re all fucked out.” 

“Brilliant, Porthos,” Athos says, dryly. “Very subtle.” 

Porthos hums out and presses a string of kisses over Athos’ shoulder, tracing over the marks already reddening there. And then he pulls back to shrug out of his clothes, tossing them aside, and then reaches for Aramis. 

“Come here, you,” he says quietly and Aramis hums out, happy, and goes to his arms, letting Porthos strip him down bare, shivering happily when Porthos plays with his hair as reward. They share another kiss, long and sensual, and Athos watches, resists the urge to touch himself as he does. 

They break away and lie back down on either side of Athos, pressing to him. Athos closes his eyes, turning his head a little when Porthos leans in to snatch a soft kiss. He leans back into Aramis as Porthos presses closer, feels the press of their cocks against him and he shivers a little, feeling shameless but needy, needing their touches, needing their reassurance. Their kiss is soft and lingering, and Porthos makes a contented noise. 

“That’s perfect,” Aramis whispers against Athos’ ear, dragging soft kisses down his neck. “Don’t either of you stop doing that.” 

And then he slowly pulls away from Athos – and he thinks, vaguely, as he’s distracted by Porthos’ lips, that Aramis is fetching the oil again. 

“You two planned this,” he mutters against Porthos’ lips, and feels Porthos’ answering smile and the deep rumble of his laugh. 

“There may have been a conversation,” Porthos says innocently, although his innocence has never been quite as successful as Aramis’. “I admit to nothing.” 

“More like four or five,” Aramis says with a wicked smile. “Don’t be shy, Porthos. Own your perversion. It’s rather cute.” 

Porthos scoffs, but throws an affectionate smile towards Aramis, who merely shrugs. “Maybe more like six or seven.” 

“Now that’s just obsessive,” Aramis protests. 

“You should see his face when I start talking to him about it. Nothing makes him come faster.” 

“That’s a lie,” Aramis says. “There’s at least two things that can make me come faster.” 

“Oh yeah?” Porthos teases, grinning. 

Athos makes a vague, soft sound, interrupting their flirting. “I see.”

“Don’t get shy, either,” Aramis says with a sigh. “It’s just because you look so good when you’re taking it, Athos.” 

Athos would make some kind of protest to this, but at the same time he’s a little curious to see how it feels, to have both of them. Aramis smiles, undoubtedly seeing that desire written in Athos’ eyes, and nods to Porthos. 

“Lie on your back, love,” he says, and reaches out to push Porthos down, who happily lets Aramis take control of this (although so many nights Athos can recall where Aramis practically keens for the desire of being directed, of being controlled). He turns to Athos and nods towards Porthos, who situates himself on the bed, stroking himself absently a few times before lying back on the pillows. Aramis smiles. “On top of him, Athos darling.” 

Athos moves on his own, but gets a little direction from Aramis’ hands on his shoulders, guiding him until he’s lying on top of Porthos, who smiles at him and leans up to catch his lips with his own, kissing him gently as his hands slide down over his back, kneading absently. 

Porthos can read his mood, what he doesn’t say, with just a glance, and he smiles a little, bumping his nose against his. Aramis can know his body with less than a glance, and he ducks his head to look at Porthos for a moment, more silent communication passing between them. 

Athos gasps out quietly when Aramis presses two slicked fingers into him, with little warning to go by beyond Porthos’ reassuring and distracting kisses. He hums out a little as Porthos’ hands drag over him, across his back and shoulders, briefly brushing at his hair. Aramis’ movements aren’t teasing but they aren’t rushed, either. They’re purposeful, moving inside him and drawing back, working him open with purpose. 

Eventually, Athos is gasping, and perhaps some of it is showmanship because he knows how much Aramis and Porthos both enjoy those sounds, and he kisses Porthos to stop himself from saying something truly nonsensical, spreading his legs a little as Aramis opens him with three fingers. He shudders at the careful touch. 

He bites hard at his lip to bite back the keening sounds he knows he’ll make and only embarrass himself, and rocks his hips back helplessly against Aramis’ fingers. Porthos strokes over his neck and shoulders, down over his arms, up into his hair – just touches him, soothing and predictable. 

“Look at you,” Aramis sighs against his back as he kisses down his spine.

“Can’t,” Athos says, somewhat unnecessarily, but he knows it’s worth it when he can feel Porthos’ laugh from where they’re pressed chest to chest. He rocks forward a bit, seeking friction for his cock against Porthos’, and hears Porthos suck in a sharp breath. 

“Behave,” Aramis says and nips at his ear as Porthos leans up and licks and bites at his throat. A hand steadies at his hip, holding him still as Aramis presses the fingers up deep into him, spreading him slowly. 

“Fuck,” Porthos says, and Athos really can’t help but agree with the sentiment. 

“Alright,” Aramis sighs, and nips at Athos’ earlobe. Athos nods and he feels two sets of hands on him, moving him and manhandling him, arranging him as he’s meant to be arranged – and he sighs with the delicate relief of it, to be held fast and safe by these two men, whom he trusts completely even if, as ever, he fails to find the means to say it – but knows they understand, always, from their looks and their actions. 

He sighs out as Aramis fills him, a moan slipping out as Porthos’ hands fall to his shoulders, firm, urging him down to take Aramis’ cock in deep – and he feels full enough already that he can’t imagine the bulk of Porthos’ cock along with Aramis and he moans again, a little louder this time, a little shuddering as he blinks his eyes open and finds Porthos watching him, eyes dark with his desire. Porthos’ fingers go tight in his hair and Athos feels Aramis clutching at his thigh as he presses into him, his hips arch powerfully and purposefully and Athos cries out into Porthos’ mouth. 

“Fuck,” Aramis whines out quietly, and Athos recognizes the tone – it’s the moment where Aramis could easily shun away with all his plans of teasing and fuck into Athos with abandon. Porthos knows that tone, too, because he pulls back from where he’s kissing Athos to give Aramis a pointed look, reaching out a hand over Athos’ shoulder to grip Aramis’ arm. 

“At least wait until I’m in there, too, you fool.” 

Aramis’ eyes sparkle with warmth when he smiles at Porthos, breathless and shuddering. “My endless apologies, love. But perhaps you should hurry up and get in here with me.” 

Porthos can’t help grinning at him, and Athos sighs out, rolling his hips back experimentally, feeling the answering thrust from Aramis. Porthos cups Athos’ cock, pressing it to his stomach and nibbling at his ear, and Athos can feel the curve of it. 

“You’re not helping,” Porthos groans against his ear. “Both of you – complete teases.” 

“I’ll have you know that just because neither of us are senseless brutes in bed, that does not mean we’re both teases,” Aramis tuts, and then kisses Athos’ shoulder, meeting Porthos’ gaze. “Athos here is a perfect gentleman. _I’m_ the incorrigible one amongst the present company.” 

“Don’t encourage him, Porthos,” Athos says with a sigh, closing his eyes as both Aramis and Porthos nuzzle into his neck as answer and Aramis twitches his hips up, stroking into him until Athos groans. “Although… you should hurry up.” 

Porthos grins against his neck and bites down, but nods his obedience. He shifts underneath Athos, and the friction and drag of his body against Athos’ cock almost makes him whimper. He shifts beneath him and it takes _ages_. Aramis holds completely still, still filling him so completely as Porthos slicks his fingers up with oil and pours a liberal amount all around him, pressing into him to join Aramis’ cock, fingers slick and playing delicately around his stretched rim. Athos squeezes his eyes shut and pants and knows that Porthos and Aramis are looking at each other – knows this without looking. There’s no other explanation for the synchronicity of their movements, the way Aramis wiggles his hips just a little giving Porthos space to slide a slicked finger alongside his cock, stroking both into him and playing along the sensitive slide of Aramis’ cock – and Athos knows that Porthos grins whenever both he and Aramis gasp out. 

One finger feels fine, even pleasant, but a second finger is a bit of a stretch. But it is not the first time Athos has felt the pain – and this pain is far more beautiful and pleasurable than many pains he’s felt in the past, old wounds only now healing over, the weight of his heart lessening even now. But a third finger is a burn and Athos has to gasp out.

“Fuck,” Porthos moans.

“God,” Aramis groans out quietly, and it’s with some effort that he doesn’t start rocking harder into Athos. Athos can feel the way his hips shudder. “This feels – you’re both… _both of you._ ” 

Athos opens his eyes. He can steady himself, just a little, breathing out and rocking his hips, just slightly, back against Aramis. 

“You’re doing so well,” Aramis whispers, something soft and almost like a purr, as he presses a few stray kisses along the back of his neck, licking at the red marks from both his and Porthos’ bites. “You’re perfect.” 

“Yeah,” Porthos agrees, leaning up and nibbling on his lower lip before dragging slow kisses along his jaw – and really, Athos feels he should be commending Porthos for his remarkable patience (impatient though he is, he knows that Porthos would rather harm himself before he ever allowed himself to lose control and hurt either Athos or Aramis – all the same). 

“He’s perfect, isn’t he, Porthos?” Aramis asks, propping his chin on Athos’ shoulder and smiling at Porthos, breathless and flushed, sweat on his brow. “Look at how good he’s doing.” 

“So good,” Porthos agrees, and brushes his fingers clumsily through Athos’ hair. “Perfect.” 

“We love you like this,” Aramis whispers, smiling up at him and then meeting Porthos’ darkened gaze. “Open for us, only for us. Just the three of us here.” He brushes his hands over his shuddering hips, over his sides, tracing along his ribs. “Letting us show you how much we want you.” 

Porthos leans up and kisses him and Athos hums out, grateful for the kiss so he can disguise the soft sob that wants to bubble out of his chest. He thinks, dimly, that Porthos must know that’s what he was about to do – that’s why he must be kissing him like this. 

Porthos draws back, brushing his nose against Athos’ in a move that is surprisingly intimate and ridiculous, but also sweet enough to distract him from the burn as Porthos presses a third finger into him again. 

“We always want you here,” Porthos says, quietly. “Here with us.” 

“Yes,” Aramis agrees. “You should have seen our Porthos at your funeral, Athos. He cried.” 

“I didn’t cry,” Porthos protests. “I just got emotional, that’s all.” 

“Because he cares about us that much, about you,” Aramis whispers against Athos’ ear, smiling – fond and warm, breathless still. “We both do. So stay with us.” 

“I’m here,” Athos manages, his chest constricting. 

Porthos kisses him, gently, the corner of his mouth and then his cheek, and then his ear. “ _Stay_ with us.” 

“You’ve come so far,” Aramis agrees, pressed against his other ear and then dropping kisses down his neck and across his shoulder. “No more living in the past.” 

“No more regrets,” Porthos adds. 

“No more distance,” Aramis whispers. “Be here. With us.” 

“Yes,” Athos gasps out. “ _Yes._ ” 

“Here with us,” Porthos whispers, that endless repetition that makes Athos’ heart feel fit to burst. 

“Here, where you’re loved,” Aramis says, very quietly, as if testing the words for himself. His eyes flicker to Porthos, who nods at him. He smiles and nuzzles to his shoulder. “We love you, Athos.” 

“Yes,” Athos manages to say, the words stuck in his throat. 

“But you knew that already,” Porthos says, just as quietly, kissing his temple and stroking his fingers into him now, working a keening sound from Athos’ throat. 

“And we know you love us,” Aramis says. 

“Even if you don’t say it,” Porthos finishes, fingers curling into his hair as his other hand works up into him, spreading him open. 

“Yes,” Athos sobs out, rocking his hips a little. 

Athos blinks his eyes open a few moments later, to find both Porthos and Aramis smiling at him warmly, one of Porthos’ hands tangled absently in Aramis’ hair to keep him close, his thumb dropping down to brush along his jaw. They share a look, warm and unspoken, and Athos ducks his head, and rocks his hips back a little, experimentally. 

“Ready?” Aramis asks quietly after a while and it takes a moment for the word to make sense to Athos, as he’s very much distracted by the stretch of his cock inside of him, and of the way Porthos brushes one hand down over his shoulder and chest. “Athos, darling.” He brushes Athos’ hair back from his face. He smiles at Porthos, tilting his head. “I believe he may be ready to try you on for size, love.” 

“Yes,” Athos gasps out, and his voice breaks at the word. He clears his throat. “Yes.” 

“Move,” Porthos tells him and Athos does as he says, until Aramis is just barely in him at all. Porthos pulls his fingers out of him and the absence itself is strange, at how empty he suddenly feels. Athos’ thighs ache from holding himself up like this and he shudders a little. 

Aramis makes a soft sound of sympathy and drops his hands down, rubbing at his sore muscles tenderly, kneading into them – thrilling at a means to offer any kind of nurturing, to offer any kind of moment where he can reassure himself of Athos’ presence. 

Athos groans gratefully at the touch – which quickly hitches off and catches in his throat when Porthos begins to push into him, just enough that his cockhead breeches with Aramis’, but it’s already so _much_ and he forgets to breathe. 

“Porthos,” Aramis says, softly, stroking his hands over Athos’ aching muscles. “Be careful.” 

“I’m being fucking careful,” Porthos says, without any venom, but with sweat touching his brow as he anchors himself to Athos’ shoulders, trying to hold steady, resisting every urge in his body to fight against his patience, to just thrust up into Athos. But Athos trusts him – completely. He knows that Porthos will never truly hurt him. 

“He is,” Athos agrees with a soft gasp, surprised at his ability to manage to say as much, and he can feel Porthos smile against his cheek, nodding a little. 

“You always take his side,” Aramis says and there’s a touch of a whine to his voice that he only half-means. 

“That’s because he gets to look at my devilishly handsome face. If you were down here, he’d probably feel better about you.”

“And be crushed by the both of you? I think not.” 

It’s aching and slow, a blunt pressure that builds up inside of him – and he thinks that, surely, it’ll end up being too much, to have both of them – and he feels tense and clenched, panting out. 

He shakes his head and Porthos and Aramis both stop immediately, kneading their hands into him, trying to coax him to relax. 

“Say the word and we stop,” Aramis says quietly, the earlier teasing gone for his voice and replaced with his gentle, nurturing kindness. He strokes his fingers through his hair. 

“No,” Athos says instantly. “Don’t.” 

“Athos,” Porthos says, frowning a little. 

“Don’t,” Athos says again. “I’m fine.” 

He squeezes his eyes shut tight and pushes the words out through gritted teeth, daring either of them to insist and knowing that they won’t, knowing that they revolve around him as he does them, knowing that they will follow his words and seek to make his expression relax, coax him back into pleasure again. These two make everything different for him – and being able to mean something to both of them, to have their love and them his trust, is enough for him to slowly begin to relax, reminding himself that he is safe, that they will keep him safe. Porthos, strong and steady, and yet aching for their love and support, too – he knows that Porthos will understand that need for companionship. Aramis, confident and precise, yet always believing himself unworthy – he knows that Aramis will understand the need to be wanted. He wonders, sometimes, how any of them can manage, when all three can so easily be crushed down by their desire for the others. 

“Let him relax,” Aramis says quietly, but there’s no room for argument in his words. 

Porthos looks at him, and his expression is soft and open as he smiles at Aramis, and nods his head, and waits, holding perfectly still as he presses his lips to Athos’ jaw. His hand is an anchor at Athos’ hip. 

“Athos,” Aramis says softly, brushing a kiss over his ear. “You’re safe with us.” 

“Yes,” Athos says, with no hesitation. 

Porthos nods his head, drawing back, and he exchanges another look with Aramis – understanding each other in only a glance – and then Porthos lifts his hand to cover Athos’ forehead, stroking gently across his forehead.

“Better?” Porthos whispers. 

Athos nods. It’s wonderful to be the focus of their attention as well as terrifying, so used to being something of a proxy between the two, who say so much with so little, who understand each other fully. 

But then, perhaps, they know him better than he realizes. Porthos’ thumb strokes over his forehead, and Aramis’ free hand traces down his spine. It takes a little longer still, but now he feels more relaxed, and Porthos pushes in with slow, slow increments. Finally, though, finally, he stops and Athos can’t resist reaching a trembling hand down, touching the space where they’re both in him. 

“ _Athos_ ,” Aramis groans and flexes his hips in a way that is probably involuntary, but it still makes Athos shudder at the spark of pleasure that spikes through him. He moans sharply when Porthos arches up to kiss his open mouth. 

The kiss is sloppy but it feels like something of an anchor, just like the way Aramis’ hands on his hips feel like a capable security for him, as well. Aramis kisses his shoulder. 

“God,” he breathes out. “Good? Yes?” 

“Of course he’s good,” Porthos says, laughing breathlessly. “Just look at him.” 

And although he doesn’t dare move for all the world, he still feels this kind of heavy power and relief in knowing that he can hold them both like this, that he can make them like this, tender and careful with him, and, perhaps, a little mesmerized, too. 

“He’s perfect,” Aramis agrees, and normally Athos hates when they speak of him as if he is not between them – feels as if they are speaking a language he is not privy to. But this time, it just makes him flush with warmth and affection, to know that he can keep them close like this. 

“Don’t worry, though,” Porthos says quietly and lifts a hand to play with Aramis’ hair. “You’re still very pretty yourself. I’m sure if Athos could move a bit more, he’d be caught up looking at you, too.” Athos can imagine the way Porthos would play with his hair. “Athos will forgive me for saying that you’re the prettiest man in all of Paris right now. And I get to see you – everyone else should be envious to be left unnoticed by you.”

Athos can’t see Aramis’ reaction, because he doesn’t say anything, but he can imagine the way Aramis’ eyes soften and the way he leans into Porthos’ hand – finding comfort in his steady presence, even when he doesn’t know – can’t ever know – what could make those shadows threaten the back of Aramis’ eyes. Porthos has always been the one to understand Aramis completely, to draw him out of his sadness. Porthos can do the same to Athos himself, too. And he hopes that, in turn, the two of them can help Porthos when he needs it, too. 

“I feel my prettiness goes without saying,” Aramis says a moment later, and there’s a slight catch to his voice that suggests that he’s gotten emotional despite himself. Porthos’ answering soft smile is answer enough and Athos turns his head a little to look at Aramis over his shoulder, hoping that he looks comforting, too. Aramis blinks a few times, and then smiles, sunny and warm. “Look at you two – much as you’ll never hear me say as much ever again: don’t pay attention to me. We can’t neglect our Athos, after all.” 

“Or Porthos,” Athos manages. 

“Indeed. Porthos, we’ve neglected to mention how pretty you look when you’re spread out below us and looking so handsome.” 

Porthos rolls his eyes but his body shakes with his barely suppressed laughter and Athos feels another flood of affection. 

“How are you feeling?” Aramis says, and despite his teasing of Porthos, it seems that Athos will be the main focus of both their attentions, and he strokes his hands over his hips and sides, touching him lightly. Porthos leans up and kisses along his jaw and ear. 

“Can’t you tell, Aramis?” he whispers to Athos’ ear. “I told you as much – Athos can do it. He can do anything when he’s determined enough.” 

“Yeah,” Aramis says, voice going a touch breathless. “It must feel… something else.”

“You should try for yourself,” Athos says, as primly as he can mange. 

“… Yes,” Aramis moans. 

“We’ll have to hold him to that, remind him in the morning,” Porthos stage whispers to Athos’ ear and grins when Athos’ answer is a small smile, a secretive look they share between the two of them.

Aramis laughs and pinches Porthos’ ribs. “Don’t’ get so ahead of yourself you forget what you’re doing, love.” 

Porthos wrinkles his nose briefly in Aramis’ direction and then drops his eyes back to Athos, tilting his head. “Can we move?” 

Athos manages a small nod and then gasps when Porthos rolls his hips more deliberately, and Athos can feel every inch of the movement as he clutches at Porthos’ shoulders and tries to breathe. He feels like he’ll fall apart, but then Aramis moans and wraps his arms around his middle, pressing against his back and _moaning_. 

“Oh – Oh, Porthos, I can feel you,” he whispers against the nape of Athos’ neck. Porthos curls his fingers around Athos’ jaw and gently tips his head until their eyes meet.

“Alright, Athos?” he says lightly.

“Yes,” Athos says with a puff of breath. He nods. “Just – give me a moment. To breathe.” 

And he drops his head to press his forehead against Porthos’ shoulder, breathing out as both Aramis and Porthos stroke their hands over him. He shudders a little under the attention. 

“He’s so…” Porthos says softly.

“I know,” Aramis replies, voice light. “God. Athos…” 

“Alright?” Porthos whispers to him and Athos nods. 

“How do you feel?” Aramis asks again, quieter this time, the kind of softness that Athos doesn’t need to answer if he doesn’t want. And Athos feels—

He feels stretched and he _knows_ how ungodly sore he’ll feel after this, but there’s also a fierce pride in this, too, in being able to do this – in being able to capture their attention like this. And he feels something that he almost thinks might be joy, or at least the beginnings of happiness that twists down in his gut. 

“Good,” he manages, quietly. A joy in taking what they give him and reducing them to this near-silence, breathless and reverent and attentive only to him. And when the initial burn eases, he can just _feel_ all of it – feel Porthos and Aramis inside him, feel exactly where Porthos ends and Aramis begins, and that he has them both. “I feel good.” 

“Good,” Aramis hums. “Shall we?” 

He looks at Porthos, who looks at him and nods his head. And it’s kind of ridiculous quick before the two of them establish a rhythm between the two of them, not nearly as enthusiastic as Porthos’ movements can be, but there’s the rocking intensity to it, but there’s the immense, precise pressure of Aramis’ typical movements, tempered by and enhanced by Porthos’ usual technique, and it fuses together into something slow but deep, and Athos can feel it all everywhere, an immense pressure and pleasure that builds. They move together, breaking off occasionally so that Aramis can move in shallow thrusts while Porthos moves slower and deeper, sliding his cock along Aramis’. 

Athos sighs out, and moves his hips a little to get them to start moving again, and rocks against Porthos, knowing that his erection has wilted a little during the penetration but now starting to feel enough pleasure that he thinks he can get back up again, reawakening slowly. And the more he moves, the more it all starts to feel nice – more pleasurable and a little overwhelming than a painful, sore stretch. He shifts to take them in, even as his thighs protest the movements, but he lifts himself higher and lowers himself down against both their cocks, pushing them in deep inside him in a way that makes Porthos groan loudly and Aramis whisper his name, clinging to him just on the side of painful. And then he laughs, breathlessly, and nods his head, rocking his hips up in shuddering little thrusts.

“You’re doing great, Athos,” he moans, stroking his hands over his chest and stomach. “So good.” 

_I love them,_ he thinks to himself as he moves. He loves them so much – so much more than he can ever say. So much more, he thinks, than he can ever express one way or another. He shudders, moving against them, wishing he could say the words as easily as the two of them can. But also reassured, after a moment, of knowing that they _know_ , even when he can’t say it to them, even when the words twist up painfully inside him. Porthos and Aramis move inside him, both going back to nuzzling and biting at his neck as before, whispering out words of encouragement and endearments, the words flowing from them as if it were easy and – he knows, it isn’t easy for them, but it’s the truth: that they care for him, as he cares for them. 

“You’ve managed so much this week, these past months,” Aramis whispers, brushing kisses over his jaw and ear. “Now you can move forward – now you can _live._ ” 

“No more shadows,” Porthos agrees. “No more regrets.”

“No more regrets,” Athos repeats with a small nod and he relishes that feeling of overwhelming fullness, of its own kind of satisfaction – that he is _alive_ , that he is whole and wanted and needed, that he is understood and cherished. 

It’s Porthos who loses it first, their names tangled up in his mouth, and he thrusts sharply into Athos as he comes, and it makes Athos cry out as he rocks his hips down, moving almost fully now to take them in deep. He shudders in his pleasure as Porthos moans below him, thrusting up. And then Porthos is pulling out from him, swiftly but in a way that leaves Athos gasping for breath, and behind him he hears Aramis give out a dry, shuddering breath that just brushes up on the edge of a sob. 

But with Porthos gone – and God, how empty he suddenly feels – Aramis starts fucking into him with abandon and he moans out loud, vision blurring as he moves back to rock against him, hands anchored on Porthos to keep moving, and Porthos hands touching at him absently, guiding him back against Aramis. Aramis rolls his hips deep and Athos groans out, biting back a shout, feeling tender and overly sensitize as Aramis moves. 

Athos just keeps making soft, hitching sounds and he doesn’t even realize he’s come until he blinks his eyes open and finds Porthos smiling at him softly, playing with his hair with one hand, the other stroking through the mess between their stomachs. Aramis is speaking low into his ear and he turns his head a little, trying to focus enough to hear the words, slurred and hushed as they are. 

“Do you need me to stop? I’ll stop—” and the words tumble out in a string as Athos listens and knows, without question, that as far as Aramis seems, he’ll stop immediately if it were asked of him – and Athos feels a flood of affection fill his chest at that. 

“Just hurry up,” Athos sighs out, trying to sound acerbic and only settling into some kind of wobbling, sated happiness that sounds unfamiliar but not unwelcome on his lips. 

Porthos laughs, eyes half-lidded in his sleepiness. “Yeah, Aramis, stop showing off your superior stamina and come already.” 

Aramis laughs, too, but it sounds strangled. 

Porthos shifts beneath him, hands falling to Athos’ hips to keep him steady as he leans up over his shoulder, catching Aramis’ mouth in a steady kiss. 

“Come for us,” he whispers against his mouth. And then he rocks Athos’ hips, bracing him as Aramis fucks him with slow, steady, but no less frenzied, movements. Aramis makes breathless whines behind him and kisses Porthos sloppily as he ruts into him, and Porthos both laughs and groans his encouragement. “Come on,” he whispers again, catching Aramis’ mouth with his. “Come for us. You’re so pretty when you come.” 

“God,” Aramis gasps out, and of the three of them, he’s the one most likely to get embarrassed at the sacrilege, but he seems more pleased than anything else, thrusting harder into Athos, who can only groan quietly in reply, spent and pliant beneath him. 

“Can you feel me still?” Porthos whispers. 

“Oh – _fuck_ ,” Aramis gasps out and comes, rocking harder into Athos until all Athos can hear and feel is Aramis and Porthos on either side of him, holding him fast and steady, feeling overfull of both Aramis and Porthos. 

When Aramis comes down from his orgasm, panting in his ear and nuzzling against him absently, Porthos smiling sleepily beneath him, Aramis slowly pulls out of him – and the two of them together are absurdly gentle with him, Aramis petting his hair silently while Porthos slowly, so very slowly, lurches to his feet to fetch some wine and a towel to clean him up. Athos feels out of his head as Porthos cleans him off and pours him a liberal cup of the wine. They lay Athos down on his back, cleaning him off and stroking their hands over him gently, massaging sore muscles and keeping him warm, and Porthos cradles the back of his head as he drinks the wine. He should, perhaps, feel embarrassed by the absurd gentleness with which they handle him, but at the same time, it feels nice to be pampered. And once everything is settled, they curl up on either side of him on Aramis’ rather small bed. 

They settle him in, making him comfortable, and Athos is only half-aware of the world around him, sleepy and spent, and feeling unspeakably sore. He hears Porthos and Aramis murmuring to one another, even hears what he thinks is a small kiss between the two of them, but they hover by his sides, caring for him. He almost tells them to stop, but he can’t find the words. 

Porthos kisses him, slow and gentle, so unlike his usual style but no less reassuring and present. He pulls back soon enough only for Aramis to lean in and kiss him, the lightest brush of his mouth as Porthos sucks and licks down his neck. 

“Sleep,” one of them say – or perhaps it’s both of them – and Athos obeys, dropping off into an exhausted sleep, knowing he is completely safe and absolutely loved.


End file.
